The Wonders of Childhood
by GBlackwell
Summary: Childhood, and its color palette of experiences, is what the Guardians seek to defend. However, there are darker colors on that palette, and there are things in childhood not full of wonder and myth. How do our wonderful Guardians fit in to this? Set of drabbles, mild dark fic. Will contain one for each of the Guardians.
1. Chipped

**Watched Rise of the Guardians, and loved it. However, being the overly logical person I am, I couldn't help but think of a bunch of different experiences that didn't really seem to be addressed in the move (not that I blame them)**

**This is a set of drabbles is dedicated to those kinds of experiences.**

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**1-Chipped **

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_It's not the teeth that's important, it's the memories. We collect the teeth because they retain all the important memories of childhood._

She held a tooth in her hand, though perhaps she couldn't quite call it that. It was more of a fragment, more like half of one: somewhere in the child's mouth the roots remained, perhaps sunken deep within the gums or left stick out. Tracing along the tooth's violent, jagged ends, she realized it was likely the latter, as the fragment she had was too small for it to have been otherwise.

She frowned. It was one of the yellower teeth she had seen, and she could see a tiny cavity along one of its otherwise smoother edges. Children these days, she thought ruefully to herself. This child clearly hadn't brushed twice a day, maybe not even once a day. At the center, it was as white as snow (she could see so from where it had been broken). If only the child had flossed.

And then there were the traces of blood. She sighed.

Toothiana was essentially, the guardian of nostalgic memories: she kept the teeth to activate the memories of how they lost them. It was normally something the like child tying his tooth to a door and slamming it, or losing it as he gave into a dare and chewed ice; things that brought smiles back to the faces of adults, things they laughed at as they shared with their friends. But looking into these memories-

"_Don't hurt mommy! Daddy, please!"_

_Dizziness… pain… a cold metal taste in the mouth, where the wrench had hit._

"_Your father's just… not himself sometimes… h-he… it's the drink… Tell you what, you… you put that tooth of your un-under your pillow and… and the Tooth Fairy will come, okay? Don't cry…pl-please, it'll…it'll get better…"_

-She was the Guardian of memories, not the guardian against child abuse (the Moon somehow hadn't seen fit to appoint a Guardian for _that_). Keeping these memories was all she could do. Still, she doubted she would activate this one, ever.

(She didn't need to—things like that… had no trouble at all being remembered on their own.)

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**Not all children lose teeth in a way they like to remember.**


	2. Match

**This one takes place before the movie, before Jack became a guardian. That's all you need to know.**

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**2-Match**

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It was a tiny light he saw, barely visible on this cold night. There were lanterns to light up the streets at night, but they didn't light up everything. The corners, the back alleys, the places to huddle away from the icy wind—these were all blacker than the night sky above. That's why he saw it—the little flame stuck out in the darkness. It flickered in the slightest of gusts, and quickly began dying almost as soon as it had lit up.

He flew over to it, and found himself crouching down and grinning. Some thin white hands held the little light as it ate up a match. The little orange flame reflected back in two large, sunken eyes.

"Well hello there," he said, "You know, those little matches aren't gonna cut it."

There was no response. The match light died, and then those two shaky hands were lighting another. And he playfully blew out the match light. There was a subdued, muffled cry; he frowned, then shrugged it off.

"It would be better if you went home now-you hear me?" he said.

The girl didn't even look at him, but just reached again for her match box, hands quivering as she did so. She shuffled, and then he noticed her feet.

"You're not wearing shoes," he said, "Never could stand the things myself, although…"

He reached out to touch her shoulder; it didn't work (it never did). She shivered violently: her lip trembled and she lit another match. The friendliness drained out of his eyes, and for a moment his voice was as cold as the winter air.

"_Why won't you look at me?"_

The girl was hit with a snowball. She didn't even bother turning her neck to see what it was: she was too weak to move it. But for a moment, he saw her eyes widened; for a moment, they shone not just because of the orange glow reflected there, but because there wwere the hints of a smile in them. Her eyes turned toward, him and for a moment she thought: _Does she…?_

"Grandma…" she whispered. His heart turned cold again.

The light went out for the third time; her head rested against the wall, and her hand in the snow. He frowned, and left on an icy breeze, savoring the cold that could (no longer) trouble him.

He was Jack Frost, and this was not the first time he had watched a child freeze to death.

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**Jack Frost, traditionally was the embodiment of winter, and winter for people before electric heating, or those who don't have such conveniences now, is anything but _fun. _**


	3. Dear Father Christmas

**Another update, after an unintentional hiatus... this one was so easy that it is probably the weakest one yet, the most cliche, the most sappy, etc. etc. but I felt I had to get it off. This is the one for Christmas.**

**And to DarkHorseBlueSky(Whose name I may not have spelled correctly) I think I know what you mean... but I am still struggling with the idea for Sandy's one-shot and how to write it in a subtle way that doesn't call for an M rating. So I think we're broadcasting on the same frequency. :)**

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**3-Dear Father Christmas,**

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It's not known whether or not the letters actually ever reached him. It's his business to know the wishes of every child, along with their deeds, both good and bad. And yet, no one knows if messages like these ever get to him.

_Dear father christmas,_

_Ive never sent a letter befor becuse mama said you wouldnt writ back because you dont exsist. but evryone at school say you exsist, they get presents from you al the time So I wanned to writ. I don't want much I just want the doll in the window across the street. Ive been good I helped out after class and stuf._

_..._

_Dear father Christmas,_

_Please I dint wan to be selfish an ask for presents, becuse its wrong to ask for things. Im sorry I was rude and ask for things. But I thought even if im bad you should give a present to friedrich, because he hasnt done anythin bad. But youve nevar given him a present, he said so. How come you give evryone else presents, but not my famly?_

_Is it becuse we have to wear stars?_

_..._

_Dear father christmas,_

_Evryone at school says that I must be noughty if I dont get presents. but how come Johan gets so many presents then becuse hes always shoving peple at school and he locked me in a closet once and it was realy scary. and how come you never gave my brother friedrich any presents. He never did any bad he was just born simple. he should get a present even if I dont because he might die soon and he wont have ever had a present._

_..._

_Dear father christmas,_

_I think you just hate my famly, Father Christmas. Evryone else hates us too, they don't let us go into their shops and they come bully papa even tho he hasn't done anything. Your just like them I hate you I hate you I hate you_

_..._

The child sent no more letters after that; the last one, actually, was not even sent, but instead tossed into a stove accompanied by the sound of stern words.

"We have more important things to worry about than some fat old man who doesn't exist. You don't get presents because we can't afford them. And even if some old man did exist who was supposed to give presents to good children… he would have to be a disgusting, biased old man, only giving thinsg to rich Christian children."

"Believing in some fantasy won't change the world. These letters go to no one, you hear? Now go do your chores and stop wasting time."

But perhaps those words did go past that fireplace, in spite of being incinerated. Perhaps they went past the post offices of Poland, though they were technically tossed in the trash by the workers at those offices. Perhaps strong faith, anguish, and innocence managed to carve those words on the wind, blowing them northwards to the man in charge of these things.

Either way, nothing changed. This wasn't the first child to think things were unfair, and it wouldn't be the last. The laws remained the same:

Rich children received presents. Poor children did not. Naughty or nice had little to do with it.

And not too long after the burning of that last letter, the child's house was empty. If you had gone in, thinking that you might leave a wrapped up doll by the fireplace or a sled with the name "Friedrich" written on its brown wrapping paper, you would have found the place torn apart, empty of any of the sounds of life.

It is still unknown whether Father Christmas simply does not know of such complaints, or if he deliberately ignores them. Either way though, nothing seems bound to change any time soon.


End file.
